Amorak
by nypinta
Summary: Dyson receives the case file from Piper's murder at the hands of the Hunter and shares with Mark what he found as the two bond over the only thing they have in common. This takes place between "It's Your Lucky Fae" and "Clear Eye, Fae Hearts".


Mark prepares for his nightly jog, a ritual of his since joining track in Junior High, even though the only reason he tried out for the team was a pretty brunette with blue green eyes. What was her name? He can't recall. He doesn't even care that he can't; a definite sign of his gloomy mood. Mark becomes aware that the rain has stopped, not that it mattered. Having spent most of the day indoors due to the downpour and going stir crazy he was going running, weather be damned. But he has to admit not having to dodge umbrellas is preferable.

With a tug, Mark closes the loop of his sneaker lace and pulls them tight. He stands with a stretch and turns once in the center of his small room at the hostel; a room he earned the first week of his stay after helping the night manager clear out a brawl of drunken tourists that were trying to ride mattresses down the stairs like surfboards. He didn't let on at the time but he actually enjoyed tossing the group of vacationing twenty-something jerks on their asses into the street. Showing off for a pair of blondes from Europe who were woken by the melee and watched it unfold in their summer pjs was a nice bonus too. When she found out about Mark's assistance, the owner was grateful and gave Mark one of the private rooms on the top floor while only charging a fraction of a communal room price. Penthouse suit, Mark beams to himself. All 100 square feet of it. He still has to share the bathroom on the second floor with the rest of the guests, but he has a room with a door that he can close and lock.

Inside was a bed, small desk with a mismatched and very uncomfortable chair, two ugly table lamps, one on a table next to the bed, the other on the desk, a small four drawer dresser that is still mostly empty, and a tiny bathroom sink that juts out from the wall next to the door. The opposite wall has two windows that overlook the alley and face a much taller building with several aging AC units jammed into windows built decades before air-conditioning was invented. It isn't the prettiest of views, but Mark doesn't mind. The closet is barely wide enough for the few hangers on the bar inside, but he doesn't have much to hang anyhow. Just the clothes he was wearing when came into town and whatever he had grabbed at Bo's. But on the floor of the closet are several pairs of sneakers. He always makes sure to have at least one good pair for running.

After getting accustomed to the idea the owner wasn't going to change her mind and toss him out, Mark found a small bookcase to place near the sink to hold a small toaster oven and coffee pot, a small stash of utensils, two plates, two bowls, and a few mugs he got from a second hand store, and whatever food supplies bought from the tiny convenience store on the corner, which was usually cereal, peanut butter, and a package of English muffins just to make use of the toaster. A few days later he rescued a tiny refrigerator probably meant for a dorm room, from a trip to the landfill when he realized all it needed was a new power cord. The things people were willing to throw away constantly amaze Mark. But with his find, suddenly milk was possible to go onto the cereal in one of the two bowls he now owns. He looks around now at what he has managed to create for himself and for the first time feels a sense of ownership that makes him proud.

And he wants to shove that pride in Dyson's eye.

Deciding his mood is too dark to be near any of the other hostel guests, (even cute European ones), Mark uses the fire escape to make his way to the ground floor, and his anger follows him, giving his steps extra urgency that rings out with each heavy footfall on the metal fire escape. Stealth is not on his agenda. He wants to announce himself to the world. Shove his feelings in the face of whoever dares cross his path. And that feeling scares him a little.

Without hesitating Mark begins his nightly run, heading East down the alley to the congested cross street of shops and bars that he is forced to follow for a block before escaping again into the solitude of another long alleyway. Each step that carries him along one of many familiar routes is a punch down into the Earth all his growing resentment at the elder fae.

'What does he know, anyhow?' Mark fumes to himself as his legs pound, carrying him through the mostly empty streets as he gets closer to the lake and the promise of true solitude despite being surrounded by towering office buildings. Something Mark learned early was the best place to be alone was to head straight into the normally bustling business district after hours. From 9 to 5 the buildings may be bursting at the seams with humanity, but after quitting time the streets empty as everyone heads home or to nearby bars for a few drinks with coworkers and friends. The only people left behind are the cleaning crews or nightly guards, neither of whom are concerned about a kid in running shoes, jogging past while deep in thought.

It begins to rain again, but not as heavy as before and Mark continues, letting the mist coat his fevered skin, cooling him and his temper slightly. The pavement is covered with a thin layer of water, creating a mirror that are streaked with perfect reflections of street lights and signs, giving Mark a surreal sense of running in mid air. He allows the scene to disorient his outer senses as he sinks further into his thoughts, attempting to gain control of them.

Despite his best efforts his emotions continue to churn, on Dyson and his scorn, on Mark's confusion and anger towards the elder shifter, of knowing that Dyson was right and hating it. He wasn't used to swallowing his pride and it tastes bitter and leaves a small knot in his stomach.

Mark is mostly annoyed at himself for allowing Iris and her friends to steal from Trick after he had been willing to give him a job, one he knew he had only because of Dyson... his father, he reminds himself. He had shrugged off Dyson's ire at the Dal at the time because he wasn't about to let the fae shifter know how much his words effected him. He knew he had screwed up. He didn't need Dyson to tell him so. _I'm not a child. Who does he think he is? Where has he been? I've been taking care of myself while he was here. What does he know? He's got his "duty"! He's not the only one with responsibilities... why is trying so hard to force more on me?'_ He wonders, but then his stubbornness flares. _I don't need to prove anything to Dyson._

He wants to believe that is true, but being honest with himself he realizes how much he misses having someone care about what he does and the promise of family Dyson offers. He has been on his own for so long, with no one to answer to or expectations to meet, that suddenly having that in his life feels almost like giving up hard won freedom. Yet a part of him craves the attention, and the thought of making someone else proud of him stirs an uncomfortable, perhaps even scary longing.

He shakes his head as he runs, recognizing that his thoughts are going in circles. He is a storm of emotion that came on after talking to Iris and that makes him ponder the girl for a moment. She stole from his boss, using him to do it, but then sat herself at the bar as if nothing had happened. What was it that she did to him that could turn him around so easily? She had a sadness about her that reminded him of so many kids he met in foster care that forced themselves to believe the family they were with was their last one, the family that would keep them. Everything was special to them, even trash, because they need it to be. He was always amazed at the junk they would imbue with nostalgia just so they could have something to treasure.

But Iris was right.

Mark slows at the realization. He is afraid of being counted on. But more than that, the idea of counting on someone else also terrifies him, because the last time he did, he ended up alone.

His train of thought is like a punch to the gut and turns his bitterness to guilt in an instant. He knows his mother hadn't meant to leave him.

Mark picks up speed as the guilt threatens to consume him, as if he can outrun it. She wasn't given a choice. Shame floods him that he even considered it and memories of that night fill his mind. His mother, shoving him under the couch, pushing him as far back as she could yet he still saw and heard everything. She fought hard against the Hunter with a ferocity he recognizes now in himself, but the Hunter was too fast. Mark sees the flash of the arrow as it hits her in the stomach, the blood speading on her shirt, the blur of a man as he tackles his mother and throws her to the floor, raising a knife to finish her right before him, only a few feet away... Mark wanted to wanted help, to make the man stop, but he was frozen with fear.

The memory of her cries chill him and his speed increases with his heart rate. Adrenaline floods every limb and the anger builds to a rage, an infinite frustration at time and the reality that he can't just reach back with the strength he has now and save her. The unfairness of it all nearly overwhelms him.

He stops and screams, releasing as much anger and grief in one long roar. The sound is swallowed by the night, muted by the rain, and Mark is left feeling empty and alone.

He closes his eyes for a moment as he is nearly forced to his knees gasping for breath from his exertion. The rain starts to fall harder, soaking his clothes through. He doesn't care.

Opening his eyes he straightens and begins to walk, just to keep moving. He realizes he's shaking. It's been so long since he allowed himself to think about the night his mother was murdered. Not out of denial. Life had just pushed it aside. First having to get accustomed to always being in another family's house but not belonging. Then when he turned 18 and the Hunter came for him he was forced to live day by day, running as far as he could from everything and everyone he knew. Why am I thinking about all of this now? His anger has faded to a dull thrum in his heart and with a lingering bitterness he wonders if Dyson knows what it feels like, to have been forced to watch someone he loved die.

A calmer voice in his mind replies that Dyson probably did know exactly what that felt like.

The idea shocks him. As does the realization that he ran himself right to Dyson's building. He was not even aware of the decision to come here but knew now it was exactly where he wanted to be. But why? Mark stares at the door, puzzled. Then recalls the strange message the fae detective had left on his phone after their confrontation at the Dal yesterday and laughs at himself, feeling a touch giddy & exhausted in the absence of the adrenaline that had fueled him earlier, and shakes his head at his own curiosity.

Thinking about the call, Mark doubts Dyson asked him to come over because he wanted to apologize. _God, was it so he can lecture me some more?_ Would the shifter really call him to take him to task again? Mark groans at the thought. Then turns the knob and lets himself in, per Dyson's instructions in the message. (Because no one locks their goddamn door on this show.)

He moves around the ring towards a small sitting area to one side where Mark can see that Dyson is currently seated. He takes a steadying breath so Dyson won't see the turmoil he has been trying to run off tonight and with his argument already on his lips Mark launches an offensive.

"Look, I get that I messed up, but is more lectur..." But he stops when he sees the fae shifter, _'My father,'_ he reminds himself again, this time with less rancor. But a familiar fear begins to threaten his calm façade. Mark recognizes the face of an adult that has to deliver bad news.

Dyson stands slowly, his solemn expression unchanging. He looks down at the coffee table and a small opened box sitting in the middle. Before Mark can ask, Dyson says, "It arrived today."

Mark takes a hesitant step forward, "What's in it?

After a pause Dyson says softly, "Your mother's belongings."

Mark stops. His body, his breathing, even his heart skips a beat. Of all the things he thought Dyson might have said, he never considered this. The room around him fades as all of his attention is on Dyson and the box. A detached part of him wonders if he can he handle this now, after this night with his hurt still so fresh... "Why do you have it?" he asks more calmly than he feels. Years in the system and then later on the run was great training for hiding emotions and keeping himself detached.

"I spoke to the Yew... the fae leader of the county you lived in with your mother," Dyson explains, "and she had it sent over."

Mark says nothing for a moment, then notes a few files next to the box. Dyson follows his eyes as Mark takes another hesitant step forward and with a smooth motion that only the fae shifter seems capable, Dyson sweeps the files into his hands and gives Mark a look that is a clear no, but it is not unkind.

"These are from the sheriff that investigated the case," he says, and then offers the promise to allow Mark to see them someday with two words, "Not yet." Mark nods his head in understanding. He has no interest in looking at the files anyhow, he realizes.

"What else is in the box?" He asks instead.

"I don't know. It's not mine," Dyson answers. Mark is stunned that the detective had not gone through and examined every item. Dyson continues when Mark hesitates, mistaking Mark's reluctance for a desire for privacy, "I can leave if you want."

Without even thinking Mark shakes his head no, not even bothering with the pretense he doesn't need Dyson's presence. He focuses on the box and braces himself for what it could contain. Slowly he moves forward, curiosity winning over fear.

Dyson keeps still as he watches Mark come closer. He saw the struggle in Mark as soon as he looked up at him and instinct told Dyson that their future was at a precarious turning point. This unexpected child, on the cusp of his life, became in one instant the most precious thing in the shifter's life and the one thing he was most keenly afraid of losing. And Mark could, if it occured to him, leave at any moment. If he turned on his heel and walked out the door, Dyson knows he couldn't do anything to stop him and he would lose him forever. The thought of it brings on a sudden pain worse than anything any Norn could ever conceive. But he also knew it had to be Mark's choice to stay.

Mark peers at the contents in the box without touching them at first. Inside are several large envelopes, with evidence dates and other notes on the outside of each. Picking up the first, he tears it open and slides the contents out on the table and pushes all the items till there is just a single layer. He stares at the jumble for a long moment, and then laughs.

He reaches out and holds up one item with delight. A fork.

He laughs again at Dyson's puzzled expression and says, "The pretty fork!" as if it explains everything. He holds it with triumph and Dyson smiles at Mark's happiness.

"When I was about 6 we moved into town for a short time and one of the neighbors brought over some horrible fish smelling casserole that first night and one of their forks got left behind." He holds it out for Dyson to see the handle with small flowers engraved in a winding pattern. "All the rest of our silverware had boring straight lines. But not this one! This was special, she said. 'Magical'. So every night after at dinner we'd fight over the fork. She'd get me to set the table so I could give it to myself... " Mark stops and laughs with realization, "Wow that was so sneaky of her!"

Dyson follows his train of thought and a roll of laughter escapes him at Piper's inventiveness. Mark smiles broadly and that breaks any trepidation the young shifter has and he dives into the rest of the contents with so much fervor he sits on the floor in front of the small table as he goes through the rest of the envelopes and pours them all out, tearing them open like it was Christmas morning.

Dyson relaxes, knowing a moment of danger has passed. He sits in one of the chairs closest to were Mark has positioned himself on the floor.

Once it is all laid out Dyson comments, almost apologetically, "It's not a lot."

Without turning from his treasures as Mark says, "Nah. It's more than I've had in years." Before him is a half empty bottle of perfume in a scent Dyson knows very well, a few photos, mostly of Mark as a child, a package of letters bound with a small piece of leather, and several very abused journals. He looks up at Dyson from his place on the floor and explains with a half smile, "She wasn't very nostalgic."

Dyson leans forward and chooses one of the several photos of Mark as a child, a slightly out of focus image of Mark with a missing tooth and bangs at an unusual angle. "Really?" He asks, holding it up with a smile. Mark snatches the picture from Dyson's hand with a laugh.

"Oh god. She tried to cut my hair and I would not sit still..." Mark laughs again as he shuffles through all of them, finding one with both of them. He stops and stares at the photo, tracing the lines of her face with his eyes, and then says quietly, "I was starting to forget what she looked like."

"She was beautiful." Dyson says simply. Mark nods his head and puts the lone photo of them both in his pocket.

He reaches for the letters and unclasps the pendant that holds them together. The paper feels strange in his hands as he slides the paper out and opens the pages. He can't decipher the words although they seem familiar. Dyson leans closer and comments, "That's ancient fae. Must be letters from her husband."

Mark looks up at Dyson with shock, "Husband?"

Dyson nods. "He was killed a year before we met. His name was Macnia. He was legendary even when I was a child."

Mark's eyebrows furrow, but says nothing more. He carefully replaces the letters in the envelopes, that although seemed old didn't strike Mark as something one would describe as ancient. He realizes how much he doesn't know about his own mother.

"I'm sure Trick could decipher them for you, if you wanted," Dyson offers.

Mark is puzzled, "But not you?"

Dyson shrugs and says slowly, "I wouldn't feel right reading them." Mark considers for a moment and then turns back to the items. The last he picks up are the pile of several journals, half afraid they'd too be in the same language. It wasn't English, but to his relief these are a flowing alphabet his mother had taught him. He scans the dates, deciding on searching her most recent history first, perhaps in a desire to see his own name written by her hand; needing a physical connection to her. Instead he spots Dyson's name. Mark looks up at the wolf shifter and points.

Dyson mock grimaces, but then laughs. "Uh oh," he says. He takes the book into his own hands and flips through a few pages, the entirety of their adventure together relayed by her so long ago. He motions with the book to Mark, "Can you read it?"

"Most of it, yes, but I think I'd rather hear your version first," Mark says with a smile.

Dyson laughs and thinks back, "Ah... it was so long ago..."

"I'm only 22," Mark reminds him, recognizing that Dyson is stalling. He gives the older fae a pleading look and Dyson relents with a sigh.

"It was winter and I was on leave from the Ash..."


End file.
